


Gargan

by LegionLight



Series: One-Shot Previews [3]
Category: Spider-Man - All Media Types, Spider-Man - Elseworlds
Genre: Character Adaption
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-09
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-15 02:01:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29926233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LegionLight/pseuds/LegionLight
Summary: There was a crossword. There was a sandwich. There was itches upon itches, stares upon stares. Then up on the top floor, 'it' came along and found a place. And all-too familiar labels followed right after.He thought wrong on getting another job.
Series: One-Shot Previews [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2139390





	Gargan

Number 1, six down: accumulation of ten years. Answer: Decade. Number 10, eight down: Punishment made by a court or judge. Answer: Sentence. Number 4, four across: Name that rhymes with Jack. Answer: Zack. Number 7, seven across: Surname of the twentieth US President. Answer: Garfield. Number 9, six across: Criminal Informant.

Chestnut eyes flicker. There's one heavy breath. A dry chuckle leaves cracked lips. The pencil's hovering ends with a slow, thick X filling the six boxes.

He damn well knows the answer. But he's not going to write it. Not now, not ever again. So after a little, difficult-to-break stare, he moves onto the rest of the crossword. And the answer gets shoved far, far back into the depths of memory.

Clacking heels. His ears prick. He lifts and turns his gaze. One of the ladies comes over, a tray in hand. She passes, unintentionally(or maybe intentionally) giving him a great view. She sets the tray upon a table, occupied by what seems to be a family of three.

His eyes almost squint. He definitely sure that family trio came in after. As in, after he made his order at the register. So why are they getting a full-course breakfast, before he gets his eggs and bacon sandwich?

After the lady leaves, going in the opposite direction of him, he glances up towards the clock. He grumbles at the time. But he brings his attention back to the crossword. He writes in three more answers. And he doesn’t try to scratch at a itchy spot.

Heels return. He nudges his head around. Although the heels are the same, they belong to a more hefty lady. She heads to the table nearest to the corner door, a little ways from his own. The tray's set in front of a mid-age looking woman. They exchange some nice-sounding words. Then like the previous one, the lady just walks off.

A palm presses the pencil down, hard. It's been nearly twenty minutes. He's sure that like the family trio, the mid-age woman came in after him. Compared to her blend of waffles and sausage, he just ordered a sandwich. A simple freaking sandwich.

He folds the paper. He pockets the pencil. Grabbing his suitcase, he finally gets up. He gives his suit tie a short, rough tug. He paces over to the register.

The cashier, who seems to be the only guy working the joint, slowly meets his gaze. “Yes?” He asks, sounding as if his nose is stuffed.

He explains that he made, and has been waiting for his order. At first the cashier just looks down, as if finding the register's buttons to be more important. But then the guy nods. He reaches off to the side, behind the counter. He brings out and hands the sandwich-shaped foil over. And it's barely warm!

He starts to ask an obvious question. “Minutes.” The cashier interrupts. He repeats the word. The cashier nods, avoiding his eyes.

There's a small itch. He forces a heavy breath. He pays for the sandwich and checks the time again. With little more than an hour to spare, he hurries out onto the streets.

With every few buildings passed, he takes a bite. With every block crossing, he uses the cleaner side of foil to wipe his lips. With every honk bursting from nearby cars, he feels more itches. With every stare that’s aimed his way, he lets some crumbs and chewed bits fall onto the concreate. He also stares, but not at the lengths of looking like a creep or psychopath.

These people- These collar-job and fancy-press appearing types, don’t know him. They shouldn’t know. Hell, they couldn’t know. To them, he should be somebody. A somebody with some name, some job, and some normal purpose.

Eventually, he stops returning more stares. He looks straight ahead, pass the street-filled crowds. He nearly halts at spotting his destination, right on the next block. He takes a final bite. He drops and crushes the foil with a shoe. He ignores some guy shouting ‘Hey!’, and picks up the pace.

He rushes in after yanking the doors open. He goes straight to what has to be the receptionist desk. He gives his ID to the lady behind it, and blatantly explains why he’s there.

She sends him the same, exact know-it-all stare. She does the dumb-acting, slow nod. A couple more itches form as she finally makes a call. After some seconds she tells him he can head up. There's no hesitation on taking one of the elevators.

A pattern of heavy breaths. Two bites on his lip. Repeatedly tightening and loosening the grip on his case. The urge to tap along to the lift’s catchy, but irritating jingle, is easily resisted.

The elevator dings and opens to a workplace. Many heads turn. Some swerve back around, refocusing on their business. The rest stay still, adopting the stare. He forces himself to ignore. And after a few searching glances, he finds and goes right to the office of the ‘boss’.

He doesn’t waste time and knocks. The door's pulled back. Travis Taylor Travers, the Daily Trumpet's tall and slim Editor-in-chief, looks down at him.

“Mr. ‘Garfield’, I presume?”

“…Yeah.” He pushes a hand out. “I'm Zack Garfield.”

“Good.” Travers steps aside. “Take a seat.” He gestures to the chair before the desk. And thankfully, he doesn’t share the stare. "You’re here about the photography job, correct?”

“Ye- Of course.” While he sits, Travers doesn’t. “It's the only job spot you’re offering.”

“Are you a constant reader of our newspaper?”

“I-I go back and forth, between yours and the Bulge.” It's strange to him how the chair looks alright, but isn't very comfortable.

Travers gives no reply. He walks over to the table, against the side wall. A few antiques, some silver figurines are lined up. The most eye-catching is the chameleon, situated next to the odd-object-out of a coffee maker. The machine's currently in use.

“Did you bring the ‘rest' of your resume?”

“I-I got the credentials in here.” The sgutcase's brought onto his lap. It’s latches are lifted. It's opened. As it's turned and set on the desk, Travers retrieves a cup from a cupboard. “They're all-"

“They won’t be necessary.”

“…What do you mean?”

A ping comes from the coffee maker. Travers flicks the switch on the side of it. He gently pulls the carafe out. He pours himself a cup.

“Mister-"

“Your employment has already been decided on.”

“I got the job?”

The carafe's put back. The machine’s lid is brought down. Travers takes his time on heading to his side of the desk. He still refuses to take a seat.

“Do I have the-"

“Tell me, how many jobs have you had?”

“I-” His back presses against the chair. His mind thinks on it. “I…don't know.” His mouth frowns. “Maybe a dozen, or two?”

“Any of them involve photography?”

“My credentials are-”

“Tell me.”

“Freelance.” His eyes dart away. “Freelance for a few months.” They look back at Travers.

“Why you'd stop?”

“Figured I could earn more in the workforce.” His shirt collar’s given a rough tug.

“Workforce?”

“You know: Construction, Handy-manning, Cook at a fast-food joint.”

“You've got around?”

“I got many skills.” His tongue nearly gets bit.

“Looking at your record, it seems that way.” Travers sips his mug.

“That's what it is.”

“And it states that these jobs you've had, span throughout the previous two years.”

“So?”

“It's unusual.” Travers smirks. “As well as a little humorous.”

“Look Travers, just tell me I got the-”

"No."

Another bite upon the bottom lip. Fingers stretch before curling hard. And Travers takes his fourth, more-longer sip.

“Why?”

“You should know.”

“Well I don’t.” Another tugging at his collar. Another darting of eyes. Nails slide against his palms. His frown deepens. “Care to elaborate?”

“Gargan.”

More itches, now entwined with chills. They run across the spine. They spread to his arms, all around his neck. His upper body goes ridged.

“Everyone who works this building knows the name. They know the man behind it. And honestly, all of New York should as well.” There it is. With a fifth, almost-slurp, it appears. The expression of instantaneous weariness and disgust.

“Thief.” Fingers snatch at his tie. “Harasser.” Nostrils flare. “Crippler.” Knees twitch. “Murderer.” A dark glare. “Did you think no one would know? Did you think after you got released, got a new name and new ‘look', that you’d be forgotten so easily?”

The mug's set on the desk. Slender hands lay palm-first on either side of it. With upmost contempt, Travers stares and stands tall.

“Get the hell out of my building.”

The many itches grew furiously. They worsened. They wanted to reach out. They wanted him to grab, to throw, to do something all-to familiar.

Instead he swallows. He swallows the boiling-levels of pressure. He struggles, but manages to get up. He carefully shuts the case. He turns his head, tearing his gaze from those pale-blue eyes. He gets out of the office.

With difficulty, he shuts the door He looks to see half of all the worker's eyes. They're still fixated with the damn thing.

He doesn’t stay still. He briskly paces. He shoves by some guy, who's not staring and is drinking some water. The guy curses as his drink spills. He's ignored.

The elevator's boarded. The ground-floor button is pressed. The doors close. As his eyes find their faint, blurred reflection, the lift starts it's descend.

It takes Gargan all of his willpower to restrain vibrating, white-knuckled fists.

**Author's Note:**

> I once attempted to type out a story about Mac Gargan before, years ago. The story lasted for only two chapters before I scrapped it. Wasn't confident in the idea, though I could never finish it. But after typing up Connors and listening to certain Super-hero music tracks(Majorally The Dark Knight), I mentally reworked the basis of the story and came to a conclusion. If I ever consider making Connors(or perhaps Prehenderat) a full story, I'll continue working on Gargan.
> 
> Also, here's apparently some trivia for you all: Daily Trumpet is the name of Earth-311's version of the Daily Bugle.


End file.
